


To Witness A Ghost (To Pull Him Back From Hell)

by InkgooSupernova



Series: The Winter System [40]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Has Panic Attacks, Bucky Barnes has DID - Dissociative Identity Disorder, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Evil Alexander Pierce, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kid Bucky Barnes, M/M, Multi, Non-Sexual Age Play, Panic Attacks, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sam Wilson has PTSD, Self-Harm, Trauma, no beta we die like men, somatic flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25404787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkgooSupernova/pseuds/InkgooSupernova
Summary: Thing was, Bucky had excused himself an hour ago, and had not reappeared since. Sam wanted to respect his privacy in case he was just getting ready for bed, but he also had a gut feeling that something wasn't quite right.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Series: The Winter System [40]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693231
Comments: 12
Kudos: 118





	To Witness A Ghost (To Pull Him Back From Hell)

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based heavily on personal experience, but written from an outside-looking-in perspective.
> 
> This story features twitches, accidental self harm, heavily implied graphic depictions of sexual abuse, and trauma reactions to flashbacks.
> 
> Reader Discretion is Strongly Advised.

Sam hadn't seen Bucky for a good hour, which was rather unusual, considering they were the only two home.

Steve had gone off to some sort of meeting and wouldn't be back until early tomorrow morning, leaving Sam and Bucky to hold down the fort until he got back. Usually, that meant Sam was holding down the fort and keeping an eye on the Winter System to make sure they didn't get into any kind of trouble.

The day had been rather uneventful, and it was getting close to bedtime. Bucky had been out and cuddling with him on the couch as the TV mindlessly droned on in the background, until he gently excused himself and made his way to their bedroom. Okay, technically it was Bucky's bedroom, as they all had their own rooms (and Sam had his own house in DC, though with how much time he spent in the tower, he might as well have moved in), but the three usually wound up congregating in that one room's Alaskan King sized bed. Sam didn't know they even _made_ beds that big.

Thing was, Bucky had excused himself an hour ago, and had not reappeared since. Sam wanted to respect his privacy in case he was just getting ready for bed, but he also had a gut feeling that something wasn't quite right.

After debating with himself for a moment, weighing his options of either leaving Barnes be or checking in on him, he decided to lift himself off of the couch and make his way to the closed bedroom door. A quiet, familiar pattern knock would let the other man know that it was him.

"Buck? You alright in there?" Sam called through the door. Sure, the room was sound proof (although that didn't block out _all_ sounds, as they had learned) but the door was left as a weak spot for easy communication.

No answer. That was concerning.

"Bucky? Can I come in?" Sam tried to shove down the building dread in his chest. Why wasn't he answering? Was he hurt? Did he need help? Did he do something bad and need to be taken to the emergency room?

After another moment of silence, Sam bulked up his courage and carefully pushed the door open, making enough noise to let them know that he was coming in. "Buck? You in here?"

The room looked empty, just as they had left it that morning. Nothing out of place, but no sign of Barnes. Had he jumped out a window? Did he get stuck somewhere? Did an inter-dimensional portal open up under him and suck him into an alternate reality? (Hey, he'd seen some weird shit happen ever since he met Steve and joined the Avengers, it wasn't _that_ far fetched of an idea).

He was about to start panicking, until he heard a withering, neglectful whimper. He could've easily passed it up to the sound of a pipe in the walls or the wind outside, if it wasn't such a familiar, quiet sound.

"Jamesy? You okay?" What kind of question was _that?_ A psychologically traumatized four year old hiding in a closet making whimpering sounds never indicated anything was okay. However, he needed to know if Jamesy would be receptive to his presence, as there had been quite a few times where the little man had gotten too overwhelmed and ended up panicking more when they tried to help him.

Being in the Air Force as an experimental combatant pararescue was somehow easier than parenting a kid in a grown ass super soldier's body, as it turned out. Who knew his life would turn out like this?

Sam was dragged from his thoughts by the sound of skin hitting against skin, quiet thuds and sharp smacks, all in quick succession and erratic non-patterns, then silence once again. What the hell was he doing in there? Sure, Sam was never one to assume anything, but those types of noises could only mean one of two things; he was either having his 'private time', as they had discussed a few months back, or he was hurting himself. Considering he was hiding in a closet, it was probably the latter.

Sam sighed silently as he sat down in front of the closet door. "Jamesy? Are you hurt?"

" _Stop._ " Jamesy's voice whimpered, quiet and short, followed by silence, followed by more dull thuds of a hand hitting skin pulled tight over bones.

He was hurting himself. Why?

"Jamesy, I'm going to open the door, okay?" Sam wasn't sure what he was going to see on the other side of that closet door, but he knew it couldn't be good. After a moment of silence, Sam pulled open the door, prepared for the worst.

Inside, Jamesy was sitting, knees pulled tight to his chest, his left hand frozen at an awkward angle above his knee, and eyes staring forward, unseeing. The almost constant bags under his eyes seemed much more prominent, and Sam could see fresh bruises already beginning to bloom on his legs and head.

He was having a flashback, a bad one. A panic attack on top of that. He had seen that type of vacant stare more times than he'd ever like to admit, even when looking at himself in the mirror.

He had to do _something._

"Jamesy, I know you're scared," Sam kept his voice steady and calm, carefully lowering his hands to the floor. "I'm right here, no one's going to hurt you. The bad stuff is in the past." It felt weird, using such simple words to talk to someone through a panic attack. He was more used to talking to people who were, y'know, mentally as old as their body.

But then again, he had had plenty of practice with Jamesy over the past few years. This wasn't exactly his first rodeo when it came to his little family. He kept both palms facing up, moving one hand slowly towards the frozen boy. He forced down a flinch when Jamesy lurched forward, trying to move away from something that wasn't there.

" _Stop._ " His little voice squeaked out, sounding almost painful, like he was straining to make any noise at all.

He had to be having flashbacks about Pierce, his 'old daddy' as he called him. Sam couldn't understand how a human could force another human to do such awful things, how a human could violate another human in such a horrifying manner.

Now wasn't the time to ponder that. Right now, he had to help his little boy out of a panic attack before he hurt himself even more.

Sam couldn't help but flinch as Jamesy's left hand froze in mid air before slamming against his knee in rapid succession, looking more like a twitch than a deliberate action. He instinctively reached out to grab his wrist. He knew he shouldn't have, but logic left him the moment he saw the damage he had already caused to his own body.

"Jamesy, it's okay, you're safe here. It's in the past." He watched as Jamesy's eyes flicked to another spot in the closet, his stare still unseeing and far away, as his right hand twitched up painfully hard, accidentally smacking against his outstretched arm. It didn't hurt, but it did startle him. Jamesy's eyes didn't even flicker, not even registering his twitching body.

" _Stop!_ " His voice gasped as he lurched forward again, his back arched at an awkward, most likely uncomfortable angle. Judging by the way he was moving, he was probably experiencing phantom touches somewhere against his back. Sam could guess exactly _where,_ considering what the poor thing went through. He settled against the wall again, right hand hitting the floor in an erratic pattern, left hand twitching in his grasp.

"Jamesy, I know you're scared, I know it feels like something bad is happening," Sam had to admit, he was in drastically uncharted waters. He was used to talking to groups of people coming back from war, not to a little boy who was stuck in a flashback about a man he trusted violating him. "But it's not happening anymore. It's just your brain making you feel old feelings. You're in your own room in Avengers tower in New York."

He obviously wasn't breaking through to Jamesy's clouded brain, his stare still far away and wide with panic as his arms and legs twitched. He backed up, letting go of his left wrist, as the boy nearly jumped out of his skin with a hard yelp, squirming to get away from whatever phantom feeling was torturing him.

This wasn't working. Sam had to try another strategy.

He glanced around the room, looking for anything he could use to help the little boy. If he wasn't able to snap him out of it, then he at least had to give him an alternative to hitting himself. His eyes caught the pile of soft toys at the end of the bed, resting on top of a foot locker that the Soldier kept his 'personal belongings' in. Who's idea was it to put Jamesy and Winnie's stuffed animals on top of a crate of sex toys?!

"Jamesy, I'm going to get one of your plushes, okay? Can you watch me?" Sam kept his voice clear, watching as the boy's head turned to face him. His eyes stared through him, but it was better than nothing.

Sam carefully stood up from the carpet floor, walked backwards to the end of the bed, grabbed the first toy his hand touched, and made his way back to the little boy. He sat down before carefully handing him-

A large 'tsum tsum' of the Winter Soldier that Stark gave them one year for some holiday. What the _fuck,_ hand? Why was _that_ the first thing he grabbed?! That would probably send him into an even worse panic attack than he was already in!

He was about to pull the toy away, before he realized that would probably upset him more. The poor thing would probably think he was in trouble or being teased if he took away the toy now. He had already offered him the plush, so now he had to face the consequences. He braced himself for the impending shriek of panic.

Instead, he was greeted by the little boy's hands carefully scooping up the large, bean shaped plush. Sam watched as he pressed the toy hard against his chest, flattening the stuffing inside, making sure to keep it as far away from his lap as possible. 

Sam couldn't help the ache in his chest, wondering just how awful the little guy felt, feeling things that happened before in such vivid detail. Sure, he had flashbacks, but they were all either visual or emotional. He never felt phantom hands- or _other things,_ as was most likely the current case- touching him because of a flashback. He couldn't imagine what that kind of violation felt like, especially when forced to relive it in a terrified state.

"There, there you go. It's gonna be okay." If this were any other scenario, Sam would have found the scene before him adorable; Jamesy cuddling with a stuffed bean shaped version of his protector. But this was serious, and there was nothing cute about it, especially when the little boy yelped and lurched forward again, left hand twitching hard before slamming against the toy in rapid succession. At least he wasn't hitting his own body anymore, so they were making some kind of progress.

That was, until his left hand jerked and tangled itself into his long hair, tugging hard at an ensnared lock. Sam winced, watching as strands of hair got caught in the grooves of his plates, getting ripped out by his pulling and twitching. His eyes showed no recognition, staring blankly ahead at things Sam couldn't see.

He probably didn't realize he was hurting himself, his body reacting on its own as he was stuck back somewhere awful. Sam knew that far too well, coming to with bruises on his arms after getting stuck in a cave in Afghanistan, only to find he was in his own bathroom.

He felt helpless, watching his little boy twitch and gasp, lurch and yelp, stare and hyperventilate, all without a clue of how to help.

He hadn't seen any of them in this bad of a state before.

He watched as the boy's right hand froze in mid air before his body trembled, his hand jerking and slamming against the plush, grabbing at the fabric before slamming it against the floor. It was better than nothing, but he had to find something else to keep his hands busy. He thought for a moment, before an idea struck him. Was it a smart idea? Maybe, maybe not, but right then it was the only idea he had.

"Hey, Jamesy, I'm going to get your journal, okay? Watch me." Sam waited for the boy's head to turn towards him before standing up and making his way to the shelf. Their therapist had them start a journal to write down their feelings for them to discuss in therapy if they wanted to. Once he managed to fish out the book from the shelf, he gathered up a box or crayons and made his way back to his spot, setting the items in front of him. "Here you go, use these."

Sam watched as the little boy's right hand reached for the items, pulling them into the closet with him. He watched as Jamesy flipped to the most recent page, ripped open the box of crayons, picked up the nearest blue one, and began writing in his familiar, uneven calligraphy that Sam would call 'authentic four year old handwriting'. He kept his eyes on the boy's face, not wanting to read what he was writing without permission. He watched as glazed over eyes stared in the direction of the paper, still unseeing as he scribbled out his thoughts. Sam flinched a little when his hand suddenly jabbed the crayon into the paper, likely another twitch. He watched as the boy's hand ground the tip of the crayon into the paper, scribbling a large, blue spot into the book before his hand jerked, earning a quiet 'snap' from the wax breaking in his grasp.

Jamesy stared vacantly at the now broken crayon before dropping it and picking up the next nearest crayon. He had already taken up two pages of the book, trying to write the date but ending up scribbling out the number 20 all over the already colored blue spot on the page. At this point, Sam knew he was no longer having cohesive thoughts, and was once again stuck in that terrible place.

"There you go, that's good. Keep writing how you feel." Sam wanted to encourage this less harmful outlet, as it seemed to be helping. Jamesy's metal hand flexed and kneaded against the plush that found its way beside him before flipping the page, picking up a red crayon and another blue crayon before scribbling shapes against the page. Sam averted his eyes, instead focusing on his face.

He watched with bated breath as the spark of exhausted, lucid clarity made its way back into Jamesy's eyes. After fifteen minutes of scribbling, Jamesy handed the journal to him, open to the previous two pages.

"Do you want me to read it?" Asked Sam. A nod. "Are you sure?" He asked again. Another nod. "Alright, thank you."

Sam read the large chicken scratch handwriting silently, keeping his breathing steady as to not betray how sick he felt reading what the boy had wrote. He wrote vague details about apparently two specific events with Pierce, along side the large patch of blue covered in green 20s. 

He turned the page, gasping quietly at the sight. The next page had crudely drawn people, one blue with scribbled on hair and lines on its left arm, and the other red and featureless, both laying on a grey bed in each drawing.

The first drawing had the red figure spooning the blue figure, both with visible, crudely drawn genitalia, with the red figure's privates pressed against the blue figure's bottom in an obvious grinding motion, the blue figure completely covered by what looked like a poorly drawn bed cover while the red figure's head was drawn above the covers. The second drawing showed the same two figures, this time with the smaller blue figure likely straddling the larger red figure, the blue figure's head at the red figure's legs with something in its mouth, this time sans bed cover. The last drawing showed the blue figure sitting next to the red figure, the blue figure once again under a bed cover, with its hands touching the red figure's poorly drawn privates, the red figure's hand on the blue figure's head.

Sam swallowed hard against the chime that found its way into his throat. He didn't want to make the poor thing feel bad for finding a way to express how he was feeling. "Are these things that your old daddy did?"

Jamesy nodded, his eyes staring at the floor of the closet. At least they were focused on something, meaning he was likely not seeing _only_ the flashback anymore.

"I see," Sam mumbled, carefully closing the journal before holding out his hand. He took in a breath as Jamesy's shaking hand found its way into his palm. "I know those things happened, and they hurt a lot, don't they? When it feels like you're back there again?"

Jamesy nodded, eyes unmoving.

"I know, I know it hurts and it's scary." Sam gently rubbed the little boy's hand with his thumb. "But it's long gone now. That doesn't make it hurt any less, but it means that it's never going to happen again. Daddy and I are going to keep you safe."

Jamesy sniffled before nodding his head, far too tired to keep up the fight with his brain any longer. Sam watched as he crawled out of the closet, immediately pulling him into a loose hug, keeping most of his body pulled away. He understood why, carefully wrapping his arms around the boy's shoulders.

"It's gonna be okay, bug. No one's ever going to hurt you again, I promise." Sam hummed gently, catching himself before he could subconsciously press a kiss to the exhausted boy's crown. That probably wouldn't help much in the current situation, now would it? "You're safe here. Daddy and I are going to keep you safe."

He sighed in relief as the body relaxed against him, going limp in the loose hug as the post-panic attack exhaustion caught up to him.

He did it. He managed to help him through his (currently) worst panic attack.

He couldn't help the warm feeling of pride in his chest, watching his little boy nuzzle against his shoulder. He thought of Riley, of the night's one of them would wake up screaming, and the other would pull them close and hold them and remind them that they were there to protect them and that they were loved.

It was that man's love in his heart that helped him love again, helped him to find his own little family.

"Here, lets get you some rest, huh?" Sam was careful not to mention the B-E-D word, knowing just how bad he reacted to it when he was having a normal panic attack. He hummed as Jamesy yawned, far too tired to fight back. He carefully helped the boy to his feet (sure, he was fit and pretty damn strong in his opinion, but he wasn't a super soldier, he couldn't lift two hundred and sixty pounds of toddler by himself, at least not without ending up in the emergency room for a busted back) and lead him to the bed, helping him to lay down comfortably and handing him one of his nearby triceratops toys. He watched as the boy's hands tugged the covers up to his chest.

"Papa stay." Jamesy mumbled, already half asleep. "Don' go."

"I've got you. I'm not going anywhere, bug. Papa's right here." Sam hummed softly, laying down on his side above the covers beside the exhausted body, using his arm to pillow his head. He watched as the body beside him squirmed just a little closer, until the side of his head was resting against his chest. "There you go, Papa's got you. I'm never going to let anyone hurt you."

"Lov' papa, lov' y'u." Jamesy's little voice puffed out, already drifting off to sleep. Sam sighed fondly, letting himself relax besides the now sleeping body.

"I love you too, Jamesy." He hummed.

**Author's Note:**

> The events and depictions of Dissociative Identity Disorder and (Complex) Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder within this story are based heavily on **personal experiences** and are not meant to educate or serve as an example for all people living with DID or (C)PTSD.
> 
> Kudos and Comments are always appreciated!


End file.
